


and the future

by callunavulgari



Series: Dark Month Collection [41]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She watches Lucifer’s smile spread across the lips of an emaciated redhead in a mental hospital and helplessly smiles back, perfect mirrors. Her nametag reads as Amy, but when she reaches to hand the girl—Anna, her name is Anna according to her chart—her medicine, Lucifer’s smile fades from the girl’s lips and she whispers, dreamily, pupils dilated so much that her eyes look black, “Thank you, Abaddon.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the future

**Author's Note:**

> Dark Month, Day 16. Emanga wanted Abaddon/Anna. I... tried my best.

Abaddon hasn’t remembered being human in millenia. She doesn’t know who she was—if she was female or male or somewhere in between. She just remembers Lucifer, mangled wings still smoking against his back, and the way he’d smiled at her as he ripped out her humanity. She was his fourth, she knows that, and she was the only one to survive the archangels.   
  
She watches Lucifer’s smile spread across the lips of an emaciated redhead in a mental hospital and helplessly smiles back, perfect mirrors.  
  
Her nametag reads as Amy, but when she reaches to hand the girl—Anna, her name is Anna according to her chart—her medicine, Lucifer’s smile fades from the girl’s lips and she whispers, dreamily, pupils dilated so much that her eyes look black, “Thank you, Abaddon.”  
  
She downs her pills, and the next smile she sends Abaddon has no trace of Lucifer in it.  
  
Her skin crawls anyway.  
  
.  
  
When she was still relatively young, she’d laid low in Italy for a couple hundred years. She would never think to remember it now, but one day, a girl who felt like stardust and shade had stopped her on the street. Lucifer was the only angel she’d ever known, so she couldn’t have known that this girl who felt so pure and clean, who smiled like an even ray of sun through a gust wasn’t just another human.  
  
The girl had stopped her, a hand on Abaddon’s wrist (Abaddon had been a redhead then too, but she always was partial to the color. War had once been a redhead, smiling with blood painted lips for centuries until she’d shrugged on a silver haired male like a new suit. She’d always liked the old model more.) and said, “Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” in creaky, rusty sounding Italian.   
  
Abaddon had glanced up at the sky, which was a glacial kind of gray, the Mediterranean choppy and slapping the coast with ugly blue-gray waves. It was raining, but both of them stayed dry. That probably should have clued her in, but she was only a few millennia old at that point, she was allowed to be sloppy.   
  
“I suppose,” she’d said, bemusedly. The girl’s soul tugging at hers was driving her to distraction.  
  
The girl had smiled and pressed a kiss to her cheek, one that left behind a tacky rouge mark. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, like it was a secret, and then she was gone. At the time, it had just been a strange occurrence. If she’d known what the girl was—if she’d known that the girl was remarking upon her true face and not the human one, well, then the compliment would probably have meant so very much more.  
  
.  
  
“Abaddon,” Anna greets her the next day. There’s no trace of Lucifer’s smile on her face, just the softness of a drugged up not-quite teenage girl.  
  
Abaddon stopped just inside the girl’s room, cocking her head. “My name’s Amy,” she said, trying for a smile.   
  
“No it’s not,” Anna sing-songs, giggling and slumping back onto her bed, eyes on the motes of dust suspended in the sunbeam shining through her window.  
  
“How do you know me?” she asks, taking a seat beside the girl and peering at her curiously. It’s dangerous, perhaps, but she’s in a mental hospital in the 21st century. Nothing is truly safe anymore.  
  
“My brother’s fingerprints are all over you,” Anna tells her, laughing. Abaddon blinks, because she hasn’t made a habit out of bedding humans in a very, very long time. “Lucifer,” Anna goes on, and a shiver creeps down Abaddon’s spine. “My silly big brother who fell so very long ago. He taught me how to fly, you know.”  
  
Comprehension dawns. “You’ve fallen,” Abaddon sighs, but by that point, the angel’s gone from Anna’s eyes, leaving only the confused human in her wake.  
  
.  
  
She’d never been able to do things in order. Hiding in the flow of time was easier than just hiding from the archangels around the globe—they never thought to look for a Knight of Hell out of order, like they’re silly rules applied to her.  
  
She leaves Anna, and sends herself back, where she infiltrates an organization—the Men of Letters, in search of a key.  
  
.  
  
She meets the Winchesters on accident, and everybody knows this story.   
  
They put her head in a box and then sewed her back together, like Frankenstein’s creature. They underestimate her and just when the King of Hell is cowering away from her, they ruin her plans again.  
  
It isn’t very hard to find somebody to restore her meatsuit once more, but it is irritating.  
  
.  
  
She’s sitting on Anna Milton’s grave the first time that she meets Castiel. She’s older now and knows what he is, even without his grace. He takes a seat next to her, cautiously, and peers at her, as if curious.  
  
“What happened to her?” she asks him, remembering that fraction of an angel sitting in a sick little girl’s skull.   
  
“My brother burned her up,” he tells her, blinking, like he has no idea why a knight of hell would be asking about an angel. “Heaven… reprogrammed her and she tried to kill the Winchesters, so Michael stopped her.”  
  
Abaddon is quiet for a long moment, thinking of a forgotten event on the coast of Italy. The salty-sweet smell of the Mediterranean seems to dance on the air.   
  
“What happens to angels when they die?” she asks, curious. She looks at him, but he’s frowning at the ground.  
  
“I’m not sure,” he tells her, voice wavering. “I suppose we go back to stardust.”  
  
She scoffs, pushing up off the ground and brushing her jeans off. She’ll make herself queen of hell—she will. But she has no desire to steal this would-be angel away from the Winchesters. Not yet.  
  
“Shame,” she sighs. “I fancied that it might be nice to have her by my side—the Persephone to my Hades.”  
  
She shakes her head, the image of them ruling together coming free like cobwebs. She quirks a humorless smile his way and allows herself one last glance at a gravestone—one last look at what might have been.  
  
She turns away.  
  
  



End file.
